The Day to Day Tales of Baker Street
by The Waerloga
Summary: A series of quick oneshots, featuring our beloved detective Sherlock and his doctor John as they learn to live together.
1. Chapter 1

John sifted through the piles of books and various other items. He couldn't find his hat—again. Sherlock had a well-organized mind, but his flat was extremely different. Whenever John tried to clean up a little, Sherlock would come home from working a case and declare everything messed up irreparably. Then he would proceed to scramble all of John's hard work into an unrecognizable pile of clutter.

He continued to rifle through the piles of junk. So that's where his laptop got to. Oh, and here was that old jar of jam he'd lost so long ago. John dipped his finger into the jar—Still good. He scoured the entire flat until he had a sudden thought. Cautiously, he picked his way into the kitchen and hesitantly opened the refrigerator door. His mouth twisted into an ugly grimace. In the freezer sat a bald human head. Lo and behold, there was his hat was perched on top of a bald head. He threw up his hands in frustration. This was his favorite hat.

Angrily, he knocked over piles of books on his way to his plush white chair. Scooping all the clutter up, he threw it across the room. He grabbed his laptop and powered it up impatiently. He was going to write _such_ an article for his blog. Finally, they would know how impossible the great Sherlock Holmes was to be around. He clicked open the internet, signed into his blog and…

The doctor couldn't bring himself to write it. He let out a long sigh and held his head in his hands. Just then, a certain consulting detective barged in, throwing his coat and scarf on the coat rack before slouching into his elegant chair across from John. The doctor stared hard at his laptop, not looking at Sherlock. He, of course, did not notice this and went into detail about today's case, why it was so childish and obvious. John merely grunted, not responding or asking questions like usual. Sherlock paused, mid-sentence.

"Is something bothering you?" he asked curiously.

"Nothing," John said shortly.

"No. I can determine by your tone and posture that there is, in fact, something troubling you. This is unproductive for you as well as myself. It would be best if we were to assess the problem and continue on with our lives."

John stared at him for a moment. He forced a smile onto his face. "Have you seen my good hat lying around anywhere lately?"

"It is in the refrigerator," Sherlock said calmly.

"Yes. I _know _that. What I want to know is why. Why is in the refrigerator?"

"It was an experiment," the consulting detective said ever so calmly.

"What kind of bloody experiment involves hats on a dead man!" he demanded.

Sherlock was genuinely puzzled. He could solve the hardest of cases. There was no puzzle he could not solve. Sometimes, though, John was a complete mystery. He had never seen John wear that hat in the long course of their partnership, so he had assumed that it held no value. What could have possibly set the doctor off like this? Sherlock closed his eyes and entered the depths of his memory. He recalled everything John had ever said about the hat. There wasn't much to go on. His eyes snapped open suddenly.

"John, I forgot." He walked into the small kitchen and lifted the hat from the man's head. Truthfully, he hadn't needed the hat all that much. The only reason he had taken the hat was to cover the dead man's baldness. The light he was using to examine the head with reflected off the hairless, smooth surface making it hard to take down the needed measurements.

"I apologize," he said, handing the stunned doctor the hat.

The doctor was flustered. "Well, yes, thank you," he said, stumbling over the words. He would have sooner thought Lestrade a ballerina before he thought Sherlock would ever apologize for something. The consulting detective merely nodded.

"I didn't mean to cause—," Sherlock began slowly.

"It's fine, Sherlock," John interrupted.

"I didn't realize this would bother—," he started again.

"It's _fine._ Honestly, Sherlock."

"Well, alright," the consulting detective said, puzzled. John got up to walk away, patting Sherlock's shoulder gently as he passed.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was in his bedroom when he heard a soft tap at the door. His eyes flicked over and found Mrs. Hudson carrying a tray with tea and baked goods. He allowed himself to smile. She always knew when something was bothering him.

"Here you go, dear," she said, placing the tray on the edge of his bed. She wasn't a nosy woman, and therefore left right after he muttered his thanks. Deep in thought, he strolled over to the tray and picked out a small cookie. He nibbled on the edge, not really tasting it at all. Something was bothering him, but he couldn't place what it was.

He finished his snack and knelt beside his bed. Reaching deep underneath, he pulled forth his violin. A thin layer of dust had accumulated. He absently picked up the bow and pulled it across the strings causing a few low, dark notes to come out. Music was an escape from the outside world, a world that was cruel and harsh towards him. John didn't mind the music either. He always praised Sherlock when he performed.

John.

The slow, quiet tune that Sherlock had been playing suddenly stopped. He hesitated, the bow raised slightly above his instrument. Where was John?

Quietly, Sherlock placed the violin down and padded across the room. His bare feet felt cold against the wooden floorboards. Opening the door a crack, he peered from his bedroom. Piles of books and various experiments that he'd grown bored of cluttered the view, but he was sure that John was nowhere in the flat. It was obvious that Mrs. Hudson had been here, for the kitchen was much neater than how he had left it.

Sherlock slowly began pacing the length of the room. John wasn't normally like this, he always left a note when he went out. Sherlock's eyes widened. Something must be wrong. It must be the work of Moriarty. Had he kidnapped John? Without delay he calculated all the possible courses of action but nothing made any sense. He just knew that he had to find his doctor, and fast.

His bath robe billowing out behind him, Sherlock raced back into the bedroom and threw his pajamas off and donned a new set of clothes appropriate for public view. In his haste, he managed to put his shirt on backwards and tried to put both his legs into a single leg of his trousers - twice. He wildly hopped around on one leg as he attempted to put a sock on his foot. He was almost surprised to find he had fallen on the floor because he couldn't keep his balance.

Shoes laced up, he finally pulled on his coat and flung open the door. Bolting down the hallway, he heard Mrs. Hudson call out, "What's the rush, dear?" but he ignored it. The time was 10:36, he noted, pulling out a pocket watch. John normally got up around 6:00. That left over four hours of which he had no clue as to the doctor's whereabouts. His mind was racing, furiously computing all the possible scenarios.

Sherlock practically skipped steps as he hurried downstairs. Four hours, no leads, just a sense that something was missing. He cursed himself, why couldn't he decide what to do? The next thing he knew Sherlock landed hard on top of someone. "Excuse me," he said hastily, starting to remove himself from the person he had fell on. He didn't have time for this, he-

"Sherlock what's the rush?" a familiar voice said. The detective did a double take, and only then did he realize that the person who had delayed his search was very person he was trying to find.

"John!" he exclaimed, visibly relieved. He was lying atop at a small, slightly tanned man who he had learned to call friend.

"Yes, ah, good to see you too, Sherlock," John said, flustered. "Would you mind getting off of me?"

Sherlock leapt up, and brushed himself off. He extended a hand to the fallen doctor, who took it with a questioning look in his eyes. "What was that all about?"

The detective paused momentarily, debating on what he would tell John. "I was looking for you," he said. " There was no note."

"I went to get milk," he said. "We were out. I didn't think you'd be up this early. Hang on-were you worried about me?"

"No. I merely, ah, needed your assistance in an experiment."

This earned a smile from the smaller man. "Of course you did," John said, struggling to keep a straight face. "Well c'mon now. Let's go see this experiment then."

"Oh well, yes, you see, about that," Sherlock stammered, infuriated that his brain had mysteriously turned off. "Um," the detective then sighed, "I was just looking for you is all."

John bit back a smile. "I'll leave a note next time, okay?"

"Okay, and I'll get the milk," he said, taking the fallen bag from the ground. With milk in hand, Sherlock took a step back and waved his arm in front of him, allowing John to go first. John couldn't help it, he let out a small chuckle and before either of them knew it, they had dissolved into uncontrollable hysterics as they made their way up to their flat.


End file.
